Jake Walker's Wife by Loree Lough

been on the buckboard for hours if Jake had intended to tell her, wouldn't he have done it by now? Hurt, too, that his silence meant he didn't trust her enough to tell her the truth about his past. And that evoked a sadness, an incredible, immeasurable sadness.
    Mostly, though, she was afraid. About as afraid as she'd ever been in her life.
    Because if the Texan hadn't been mistaken (or lying), and Jake had been convicted of the murder—and sentenced to hang for it—her dreams of a future with him would remain just that. And the mere thought of losing him, even for a reason like that, woke an ache inside her that she'd thought long buried, a pain as cutting and as deep as Mary's death had caused.
    Almost immediately, grief became guilt. How could she sit there and compare what she felt about this man she barely knew with the feelings of loss she'd experienced when her dear mother died! Get hold of yourself, Bess, and do the right thing.
    But what was the right thing?
    Confront him, of course! Force him to explain what happened back there.
    The huge box on the wagon bed shifted, groaning slightly as Jake guided the horses around a soft bend in the road. It reminded her how, even before he'd even climbed up onto the wagon seat beside her, she'd asked him what had been housed in the mammoth container. He'd said he didn't know what was in the box. But that hadn't been the truth; she could tell because his pupils had constricted and his lips had thinned, just the way Matt and Mark's always did when she caught them in a fib.
    The knowledge that she'd be able to tell if he ever told her another fib...or an outright lie...lifted her sagging spirits a bit. She would confront him about what had gone on back there on the dock. And while you're digging for information , she grinned, you may as well see if you can get him to tell you what's in that crate!
    Several more moments passed in total silence before Bess took a deep breath. The time was ripe. "We both know you owe me an explanation."
    He'd just chick-chicked to quicken the horses' pace. Her question seemed to hit him like a bolt, and his hands froze in mid-air. Jake cocked his head and gave her a half-hearted grin. Raising one blond brow, he said, "About what?"
    After another exasperated sigh, she said, "About what that awful man said, of course...."
    She probably wouldn't have said 'spit and vomit' with as much disdain in her voice as she'd said 'that awful man.' Jake had only known her for three months, but in that short time, if he hadn't learned anything else about Bess, he'd learned this: for all her stubborn determination to appear in-charge and tough, she was more sensitive and tenderhearted than anyone he'd ever known. She hid her soft side well, he'd discovered, but for the lucky few who took the time to look, her warmth and compassion showed in her eyes...and in her voice. She was trying to sound casual, as though the almost-brawl hadn't upset her in the least. But it had troubled her, scared her, even.
    "That man threatened you," she was saying. "He said —“
    "That man," Jake interrupted, "doesn't know what in Sam Hill he's talking about!" He said it with such ferocity that Bess drew back slightly. Immediately, he regretted his harshness. "He’s nothing but a drunken sailor."
    She flexed her hands. Smoothed her skirt. Tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. "You don't really expect me to believe all that fuss and bother was nothing more than a case of mistaken identity...."
    This woman could never play poker , he thought, because she doesn’t know the meaning of the word subtle.
    Bess ignored his quiet chuckle. What should have been a rapid-fire inquisition never happened. Bess sat back and stared straight ahead, one dainty finger tapping lightly on her knee. "So I take your silence to mean he was mistaken, then? That he has you confused with some other fellow from Lubbock...one who killed a man and escaped before they could hang him for it, and just so